Two Is Not Enough
by MurdeTram
Summary: My first OC works. One male OC, one female, and Raven. Hm...
1. Chapter 1

A.N; Well wouldn't you know it? My dinosaur of a laptop uses a hella old version of Word. A hella old version of Word that isn't compatible with the Word on my school's computers. So the text comes out as just periods and ["] - those things.

Right now, I have two choices. Three, really.

One: Try and fix it into a workable text document.

Two: Re-write the whole thiong from scratch.

Three: Scrap the project.

Well, Three is obviously out the window.

And I spent teh last hour trying One. So I'll give One another try, before resorting to Two.

Anyway, It'll be a little while before I'm able to post something worth reading.


	2. Chapter 2

A.N; Well, sorry for the rape of your news feeds loyal readers. I had to send, take down, and re-send every time I think I fixed the problem. Well, I just have to re-write the whole damned thing. Thanks go to fantasymoon1 for the Atalia O'Malley character. Fantasymoon1, I hope I did well with your character. Anyway, read and review.

"Atalia! Time to wake up!" She heard a familiar voice came from down stairs, her mother's.

But still, Atalia laid there. Not moving or getting up, or doing much of anything other then merely lying there. Rose, her second sister by age, four minutes before her, did nothing as well, but she wasn't being called. Rose went to a different school, closer, and didn't have to walk a mile to it.

"Atalia! Come on! You're already late!"

This remark got the brunette girl moving. Her mother always woke her up a good hour before she had to leave, for breakfest and homework and whatnot. She never woke up this late.

Atalia quickly threw off her quilt; which offered more comfort then warmth in the drafty house, and jumped from her bodily-warmed bed, onto the cold, hardwood floor. She slept in her day clothes, knowing full well that she would neither wrinkle them, nor sweat in them. A thick, black turtleneck, to combat Jump City's winter chill. She shimmied into some black jeans, neither tight nor loose; but comfortable. Black wasn't Atalia's favourite colour, but it absorbed the sun's warmth excellently, which is perfect for an anemic like herself.

"Atal–" Her mother started, but was stopped by one of her daughter's feet hitting the floor.

The student sighed, whipping her head back and forth caringly. Her mother always worried about her. Her mother always found time to worry for her, for all of them, really. All nine of them. And, ever since her father died, their father died.

She kicked herself for being so possessive over the man that had meant so much to all of them. And he, bless his soul, had been the glue that held the family together. He died when Atalia was merely six, too young to rightly understand what death was, but old enough to have a firm grasp that he was never coming back.

Like she always did, Atalia smiled and signed "Good bye" to Rose, before giving her a press of the lips on her forehead. Down the hall, on the two other doors, she signed the same few hand motions, and gave the door a loving touch. At the foot of the stairs, she signed to the attic, where her two eldest brothers slept. She couldn't touch the ceiling, so she merely smiled up at where the beds were.

Jump City was rather mute-friendly. She had to go to a 'special' school, and that was a bit of a downside, but for Atalia the Humanitarian, it was merely a chance to help others. The deaf, blind, and mute of Jump City went there, and the teachers were caring and understanding. They didn't hand out A's for turning any thing in, but they went out of their way to help anyone on any subject.

After a quick bite of jam toast and a sip of cold milk, Atalia turned the corner, and saw her school off in the distance, on the right. Two buildings down. Outside was Mr. Gersh, waving at any passersby, and signing or telling students the weekly events. It was Monday, and he stood out every Monday, making sure every student knew if school wasn't meeting someday, or if parent-teacher conferences were this week or the next.

Three steps down Main Street, and Atalia's eardrums, if they worked at all, would have of been torn well beyond use. The concussive force flung her across the street, her leg being grazed by a small four-door Sedan. She would have of hit her head against the stone wall, but a second wall, much more focused on keeping the girl safe, kept her from incurring any further harm. Atalia thanked her lucky stars for the fourth time in her life, and stood up, another translucent wall between her and the source of the explosion.

Across the street, three men, all looking exactly the same, were walking casually from the ruins of an art galleria. They all wore full black body suits, and had orange masks. Two held several drape-covered art pieces, none of which Atalia thought were any good, she'd been in there enough times to gauge for herself. The third, only differentiable by the fact he was carrying nothing. They moved with slight jerking motions, like rigor mortis had begun to set in.

A deep breath, and Atalia spread out her light blue wall, making sure it wasn't too tall or wide, as either axis would weaken the wall itself. She had a well-enough grasp of her powers, despite being slightly afraid of them at first. She hid them, but it was hard to hide autonomous barriers in a house with four rowdy, wresting star-aspiring brothers.

She pressed the wall towards the men, not too harshly. Atalia didn't want to incur harm to the men. Press them up against the wall, that was going to be it, until the proper authorities could apprehend them. But they were completely blindsided by the wall of energy, and were tossed against the stone remains without even the slightest hint of a fight. They hit the wall, hard, before Atalia could take pressure off her barrier.

Sparks flew every where, and for a split second, Atalia was terrified she might have thrown them onto a breaker, or a downed powerline, but the sparks came from the men themselves. Out of all their joints, their faces, and their chests. Still remorseful for hurting the electrical men, Atalia pulled back her forcefield, and screamed in horror as they slunk down to the ground in a boneless, weak pile of still-sparking metal clamour.

What the brunette mute had mistaken for armour or clothing had actually been the exterior of a robot and, upon failure, they self-destructed. Metal shrapnel and smoke went every where. Atalia was thrown back for the second time that day, by a smaller, less potent explosion.

People were yelling. Screaming. Asking each other what happened, and looking at Atalia with the strangest of looks. Some helped her up, and asked their usual questions. At least, she was pretty sure they had. She had to re–focus her powers to hear the world around her. All at once, the sense of hearing crashed down upon her, boring a hole into her skull, dizzying the brunette.

" Come on, make room!" one voice was discernable. It was masculine and strong. Atalia felt herself being whisked up before she blacked out.

Nothing. Sweet, mute, soundless, ethereal void. It was perfect, and safe. She was safe here. But the same voice came nagging in from some where, from no where and every where all at once. She couldn't rightly hear it, but it was there, falling upon her useless ears. Outside of this all-encompassing nothing.

Then, her senses came back to her, her real, un-powered ones. Touch, came first. Stiff, uncomfortable bed underneath her. Hospital linens. Next was smell. The noxious, acrid odour of sanitation equipment came rushing into her nostrils. Taste. Nothing. No copper or iron or even the normal taste of her own mouth. Sight was last, as she groggily opened her eyes. A masked youth was bent over her, his mouth moving quickly and callously

Atalia was at a loss for who the teen was. He was obviously neither blind, mute, nor deaf, as he spoke to her quickly, his head turning up and down, making sure she was quite alright.

Robin. From the Teen Titans. They watched over Jump City. After taking down Dr. Light when he tried, for the third time, to tap into the grid to wipe their tower from existence on a small island offshore, they kind of took a few steps back. Crime went down now that there was five super-teens in such a city.

Robin's mouth never slowed down, and she could tell the most basic of words from his lip's nigh spasmodic movements. "You." "Alright." "Okay." "Can you hear me?"

The last sentence's lip movements had been bored into her memory all over town; before she found her powers.

Atalia sharpened her hearing. Beeping. The machine that measured heart beats. Whoosh Whoosh. The thing that made someone breath. Surely she didn't need that. She felt her breathing controlled only by her own lungs. Then there was someone else here, in need of help.

She sharpened her hearing even farther, to take in all sounds, before reeling it back in; she needed to hear machines and voices, not mice in the walls, scratching and biting timber. "I'm fine" Atalia's frail, slightly shaky hands signed as fast as she could muster.

"What? You can't speak?" Robin asked, leaning back a bit to give her room to move her fingers and hands and arms. His voice was there this time. It was strong and commanding, but seemed freshly out of puberty.

Smiling at the question that was asked daily, Atalia shook her head and pointed to her mouth, before shaking her head more vigorously.

"But you can hear me?" He asked.

Atalia had to think of this for a second. She was completely deaf, but she could hear him. A simple nod would do.

"Alright, well, I'm pretty sure Raven knows how to sign, I'll be right back." Robin said, a little slower then before. He raised his eyebrows, asking for understanding.

Nod nod nod.

"Be careful." the spiky-haired teen said before running from the room, his black and yellow cape fluttering behind him a she ran. He wore neon green tights, and his shirt was a vibrant red. Hard to miss.

Looking about quickly, for the injured person that needed breathing aid, she found one other gurney in the small, sterile white room. I t's occupant was tall. Taller then herself or Robin, himself.

He, however, was in the white paper gowns normally issued by hospitals. Atalia gave her own body a quick glance; the thought of someone undressing and re–dressing her was a little worrying. But there she lay, black turtleneck and black jeans. Just what she set out in; plus dust and plaster bits.

Throwing her legs over the gurney 's little wall that served more as a handle, Atalia ran over to the man, several tubes leading into him, through his mouth and nostrils, and one into his arm.

As she rushed over to help him, he began convulsing, lightly at first, but worse and more convincingly after a few seconds. The beeping from the heart-rate machines sped up, and the pistons of the respiratory machine also began working harder and faster.

" Please come back!" Atalia silently willed Robin and Raven, hoping they would know just what to do. Brunette, seeing restraint as the only viable option at the time, pressed down gently on his chest and head, using a soft sky blue wall to press the rest of him down; hoping she wasn't actually making things worse.


	3. Chapter 3

A.N; Well, wouldn't you know? Word has a Find and Replace feature, which made this fix MUCH shorter. Anyway, this OC, Mark Merker, is an amalgamation of several OCs I got, with one taking main prevalence. Yes, it's practically Alex Mercer with a slight name change and an explanation to the virus. The guy, whom asked to not be disclosed, said he made Mark prior to Prototype (Alex Mercer's game) being released, and that he fixed it up afterwards, and gave him Alex's last name, with a ltitle change. Anyway, I think Mark is a neat enough character, with the kind of attitude what's needed in this story from a male OC. Unsure as to whether or not this constitutes Cross-Over status or not. Please, enlighten me.

"That all ya got?" he asked, using slang to show an air of carelessness. He feigned right, then left, and feigned right again, before landing a devastating right hook. Punches only. His weak point. Low upper body strength; everything went to his legs and back. But that was just fine, the raven could throw every ounce of his body weight behind a punch, and make it nigh as devastating as his kicks.

"Gah!" his sparring opponent yelled out, his head twisting about hellishly. Pain flared out all across him, and he fell back, fearful of what else the raven could unleash. "My kicks are nightmarish; my punches are shit," that's what the freak said. But his punch, just that one punch, ended the match.

Smirking, Mark raised himself from his stance, low, close to the ground. His arm hurt, but his old master had only ever strived to teach the martial artist two things: One, Never let them see you bleed, and two; winning a fight without coming to arms is the height of skill. This was a time for number One to come into effect. "And that's your best student? I might have to spar against you," Mark Merker pointed garishly at the master of the dojo, the latter's black belt having two vertical stripes of gold glinting mockingly in the sunlight.

"Pride comes before the fall," the bald master muttered under his breath. He raised his right arm, and bent his knees slightly. Never lock your knees, and always have a hand up.

Smiling sadistically at the chance to prove himself even mightier then a Grand Master in Tiger-Style, Mark shook off his boots, and slid out of his leather jacket, dozens of patches, proving his love to a shock rocker. "What are the terms? "

"No holds barred. I want to see what an urchin as yourself could let loose. "He spoke eloquently and with large spaces between his words, as if he was measuring them just as they came out of his mouth, making sure they carried the weight he hoped them to.

A sharp intake of breath all around them. An all-out fight, Master Chen "s students knew, could easily lead to broken bones, or even death. The concrete underneath them looked much more menacing then before.

A few seconds of standing still, Mark grew restless, and struck out, a sloppy backhand that was geared only to show a weakness.

Master Chen knew the feint, and took it as an affront. He slapped the hand away, and whipped his right arm at the youth, hoping to end this spar as his opponent had. In one blow.

But Mark twisted just enough to allow the seasoned, calloused hand glide right past him, barely grazing his thin black muscle shirt; not that he had many muscles to show off. Twisting farther, Mark preempted the Master's next blow, an open-palmed blow meant to mimic a tiger's paw.

Master Chen hopped two feet back, hoping to take a breather, and look at the sadistic youth's movements, but Mark took this as a defensive measure, not a neutral one, and took the offense for himself.

A savage roundhouse with his left leg. He'd broken an arm in four places with this kick, and was expecting the same result; but Master Chen leaned backwards, giving the sloppy kick a wide berth. Letting momentum take him, the raven followed through, lifting off the ground with his right leg, coiling it for a devastating mid-air front-kick. This had never worked before, but Merker had no reason to think it would fail.

It, in fact, did not fail. His socked foot caught the Master square in the chest, easily cracking a rib or two. But the Master took the blow in steps, and only recoiled slightly, letting the pain lend itself to his next over-head, open-palmed punch.

Mark had no idea how to stop himself from this kick that had never worked, so he merely fell to the floor, catching only the least of the downward stroke from Master Chen "s over-head attack. A harsh kick to his side, though, and Mark was a foot away from the pained Master, scrambling to get up.

"Good kick," the raven smirked, wiping some saliva from his lips, "But how was mine? " There was a pinkish tinge to the liquid, but he paid it no mind, as he went back to fighting, feigning another roundhouse, before dropping to his right hand and comparable hip, and lashing out with his left leg, aiming for the Master's ankles.

It was as if the urchin had merely vanished, before Master Chen took another neutral step, and hobbled back weakly. His broken rib was striking lightning through his body. Give up. There was no shame in keeping yourself alive. But what this urchin had done to keep alive, that was shameful. To him, and the greatest swordsman years past; Master Merker.

The last blow was from Mark, as he turned tails to run at the ring of white-clad students gathered in a ring around them. The shaven-head didn't know what to do, and instead threw up his arms in a defensive measure. Mark landed a foot on his forearm, and used it for leverage to propel him up, and back at the Master, who was trying to discern if this was another feint, or if the disgrace was actually trying to run away.

He learnt it was neither, and merely a set-up for a hellish over-head kick. Merker actually spun himself up-side down to lend centripetal force, gravity, and momentum to a bone-shattering axe kick. Master Chen saw the urchin's true movements too late, and could only copy his student, in throwing his arms up, hoping to protect himself from the horrific onslaught wrought by such a disgraceful failure.

The raven felt the satisfying crunch of bones before he heard the old man yell, and all his students yell out in panic. The kick had worked. Sure, he'd be left with a bruise the shape of an old man's forearms on his shin, but it was worth it to him, as he basked in the shaky old man cowering behind two of his eldest students, both taking up the same stance their failed master had a the beginning of this fight.

Mark dove down for his boots and jacket, and spooked the two students. Laughing a laugh that was closer to a cackle, he slid back into his steel-toe boots. "Maybe when you realize what power is, you might be able to take me. " He slid on his jacket before walking down the same alley he had walked down, scraping his black claws against the stone wall of a crappy art gallery.

Why they'd ever build a dojo adjacent to one is beyond his guess, as he emerged from the alley, only to be blindsided by an explosion, the kind he'd felt inside of himself when he main-lined the Merker Syndrome chemical agent. It was what gave each Merker, down to the aboriginal roots of the name, Mah-Kar, their unparalleled strength and power.

Power. That's what the raven wanted. Unlike Lieutenant Merker, his father, he didn't take it to make a difference in post-911 Afghan. Unlike the Master Marker four generations before him, he did not take the drug to end the feudal Japanese war. Unlike the King Merker, in the early fourteen-hundreds, he did not take it to end a tyrant's reign over Europe. No. Mark Merker wanted power. He wanted that tyrant's unrivaled control. He wanted that Daimyo's mastership.

But the blast just beside him had caught him off guard, threatened to tear his eighteen year old body apart, and sent him spiraling down into darkness. Loss of power. Loss of control. Loss of himself, as he delved down into the emptiness of his dark self-consciousness.

The three aforementioned Merker's, along side dozens he'd never known, all looked at the youth disapprovingly. They did not speak, but words, no, lies like "weakness ", "worthless ", and "cast-off " all whirled around him, in hundreds of languages and a thousand dialects. Only the males in the Merker line could take the drug, so only men stood before him, judging him.

Master Merker was first to speak, sword sheathed, but hand on the hilt. "Dishonour is worse then death, and you have brought dishonour on all of us. " Mark tried to swing out, but he felt thousand of pounds on his arms, and could not, for the life of him, raise his arms.

"Revenge is no asset to a man," King Merker tried to reason with the youth, but Mark spat back with: "You all used it for vengeance! Wars and Tyrants and more Wars! You all used it to spill blood on the battlefield. It did nothing but show just what a human was capable of! "

"Son, we all fought the virus, now you have to. Yes, some of us gave into it, but you're so much stronger then that. You showed us that every day of every week of every month of every year of your life. And with the second strain my blood brought into it, the psychological effects are only stronger in you, and if you have a son, even stronger in him. " Mark's Father kneeled down, as somehow, he was still taller then Mark.

"Your blood was what was needed to unlock the Merker Syndrome's abilities! Look at what you can do! Blades and whips and even fucking wings! No other Merker could ever hope to achieve the perfection we wrought into this virus! " Mark screamed his hoarse scream at his father, as all the other Merkers of long past merely fell into shadow, leaving only father and son.

"Michael, you can't keep doing this. You're going to slip up, we all did. Hell, Yakomo almost got his arm sliced right off by trying to usurp the throne he so valiantly fought for. The virus tried to take the throne. And right now, the virus is wreaking havoc with you. I don't know if it's the strain my and your blood brought into it, or if it's the age you took it, or even the fact you main-lined it, but it's so much more aggressive then what even Mah-Kar had fought inside of him. And that was the purest form." He laid a burning hand on his son's shoulder, pressing lightly and meaningfully, "Son, you're stronger then this, you fought this battle a dozen times in a dozen centuries in a dozen lives. You can do it. "

But Mark's ears were closed to his father's words, and he only struggled against the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.

High, shrill, yelling. Rapid, monotonous beeping. Quick, vehement whooshing.

This is what an empowered Mark woke up to. Despite his body going into shock akin to someone with a peanut allergy eating a peanut-butter and peanut sandwich; his mind was calm. He took in every detail he could.

A spike-haired kid bent over him, pumping his chest evenly and strongly. Some brunette girl, moving her hands and fingers quickly, tries to sign to a paler girl with short, blue hair. The former female wore a black turtleneck and black jeans, and her hair, wavy and well-taken care of, was in a tizzy. The latter wore a dark blue robe, from his position, staring at her back; Mark could not divine what she was wearing underneath.

And the kid atop him, trying to play hero, wore a bright red shirt, and seemed to have a yellow cape around his shoulders. He even wore a mask that hid his eyes from view behind a white canvas.

Either Mark was in a coma until Halloween, or he woke up in one hell of a hospital.

With one strong push, Mark tried to push the teen away, but was surprised at his tenacity, as he called in a friend, African-American, with machinery making up most of his body, to hold down the "patient ".

Merker Syndrome always had three base parts to it that it put into every Merker. Faster regeneration, in that, all but the destruction of the brain would be healed within a matter of seconds due to heightened activity on the molecular scale. A hollow bone structure made of a more crystalline structure of bone, adding agility and dexterity on a basic skeletal scale. And lastly, strength. Mark could tear sword-grade steel into pieces with his bare hands. Not just the skeletal muscles; the ones needed for such actions as moving and getting up, but his cardio muscles as well, were hyped-up at nearly 200/160. Enough to give cardiac infarction to a normal man. The fourth, that as only experienced in Mark, and his father, was much more hellish.

"I'm fine! " He yelled, struggling against both the spiky-haired youth, and the metal-man. They quickly learnt he was strong, and worked even harder to hold him down.

"Calm down!" the shorter of the two, yelled at him, reading the cardiac machine and the respiratory machine. The former's beeping was leveling out at around twice what a normal person's should be. And the latter was at thirty respirations a minute.

"It's supposed to be that high! " He yelled, wrestling against the two, raged that he couldn't out-muscle the two. "I have a condition! Now let me go dammit! "

The taller man-robot, aptly named Cyborg, released his mechanical fistfuls of clothing, and straightened up, nodding his head for his shorter friend to do the same.

Spiky-hair gave the raven a look, before grimacing as he stood up, watching his vitals. They evened out at around danger-zone. "What condition?" he asked shortly.

Swinging his legs over the small gate, Mark got up with ease, the torn muscles and ligaments from the explosion having healed up long before he got to this teen-manned hospital. "It "s called Merker Syndrome. Ever heard of it? "

Astonishment adorned Cyborg "s face, but Robin, the shorter, spiky-haired teen, merely looked on undeterred. The girl with blue hair turned and looked at him, but turned back to the brunette, whom was still signing. Either deaf or mute. More then likely the former.

"Merker? Alex Merker? The one that killed the aboriginal tribe where the drug itself was first made? " Robin asked, taking an authoritative step towards the hospital-gown clad man. A height difference of nearly a foot did nothing to deter him.

"That was my father. I "m Mark Merker, best martial-artist in the world." he sneered the ending, not having lost his competitive edge. The kid was short, and not overly-muscled, he had to be in martial arts, rather then boxing or something of the like, that was half strength, half intimidation, and half rigged.

"Father? Fine, then where is Alex? He "s wanted in three countries. "

Cyborg seemed to liken this as a good time to leave, so he turned curtly and left, shrugging off the personal feud between two people who only just met.

"Dead, " Mark hung onto the word for a few seconds, making sure it were real. It had to be. "Each Merker gives his life to implant his child with the Merker Syndrome. He died eighteen years ago. "

Seemingly sufficed with the explanation, Robin turned to leave, before throwing a confident challenge over his shoulder. "You know, I "m a pretty good martial artist myself. "

Unable to resist, Mark followed the cape-clad teen through the doorway, out of the hospital wing, after, of course, grabbing his clothes, which lay in a neat pile beside him. He seemed to give no care to his backside being visible to the two females.


	4. Chapter 4

A.N; Well, three chapters de-gibberished and uploaded. That must be a personal record. Anyway, I'm not too good at fight scenes, so cut me some slack, I'll be going to some casinos to see my brother cagefight, which should give me a decent idea of what the hell goes on in a fight. Then, from there it's all about video games, to get an idea of meta-human fighting, but with a real-world grounding.

"What was that about?" Atalia signed confusedly. Killing was a capital crime, and it needed swift punishment in the form of life without parole.

"Can you hear? It"d be much easier to tell you, as there aren"t signs for a few of the things I need to say." Raven asked, her fingers curling and straightening to make near-perfect signs. She learnt long ago, when she was still a child on Azarath. She was a little rusty, though, and took a few seconds to recall what finger and arm gestures meant what.

Atalia nodded, before using her hand to say "I"m deaf, but my powers let me hear, just not talk."

At this, Raven smiled, and nodded. Her smile was warming, and seemed to mean so much to Atalia. "So, you can hear me?"

Her voice was strong, but unsure. Atalia nodded, somewhat dazed by the combined beauty of this girl"s heart, body, and voice.

Raven gave the brunette a bare-bones explanation of Mah-Kar, Yakomo Macker, and then Alex Merker. Not forgetting the horrid things they did while drunk with power, but also not forgetting the heroic deeds they did long after. "This new one, Mark, I don"t know his tale. But, if he"s anything like his forefathers, he"s not clean."

Atalia pondered the meaning of this euphemism, but dismissed it, before waving her hands to get Raven"s attention, then asking if Robin, the leader, and Mark were fighting.

Raven smiled again, almost a remembering smile, before answering "Kind of. Robin never lets a chance to show he"s the best slip by, and Mark, well, it"s in his genes to fight. Fight, and win."

No later that the words left her pert, kissable lips, had Raven stood up from her kneeling position. Her cloak shuddered around her, and showed off mile after mile of pale leg. All the way up to her unmentionables, which were covered in what seemed like a unitard. "Come on!" She said before rushing out of the door. Atalia, dazzled by the view of her rump, followed dumbly.

Titan"s Tower was large, some sixty stories high, not to mention all that lay under ground. The ground was hard tile, and just as the walls, a dank, boring gray. Not that there was something wrong with gray, as Raven was more gray then pale.

Atalia felt her core warm up, being only inches from Raven of the Teen Titans. She wasn"t in love with her, but she admitted to feeling attracted superficially when she saw posters or videos on the news. So now, in the small elevator; the Titans decided small on elevators, since Cyborg and Robin would be the only ones using it, as everyone else had a method of flight or teleportation, or both; Atalia couldn"t help but sneak side-long glances at the cute blunette directly beside her.

Quickly, around five floors per second, Raven and Atalia"s elevator chimed as it opened it"s doors, revealing quite the scene.

Mark, shirtless but wearing dark, acid-washed jeans, was in the center of the heliport, marked by a large circle they must have of been using as a ring. He had Robin and Cyborg on opposite sides, a few feet away, in case he stuck out.

Robin was covered in dirt from the gravel covering the Tower"s rooftop, and he seemed to be breathing a bit heavily. Cyborg, on the other hand, was just fine not a bit of dirt on him, nor any scratches. He must have just stepped up.

But what struck the scene was Mark"s arm, or rather, what was protruding from his elbow.

A single, large, black and red blade was glinting like onyx in the waning sunlight. The inside edge, which held a slight silvery colour, looked, even from a distance, razor-sharp. The outside was thin, but obviously blunt. But, on closer inspection, Mark"s blade was covered in tiny, black, writhing things.

He didn"t seem to care, as he lunged at Robin, whom was behind him. He spun backwards, and caught him with the blunt edge, sending him several yards back.

Cyborg, taking the attack as an opening, yelled, and started running at the raven-haired fighter. He opened his arms, and caught the man in a tackle, taking him to the ground.

Raven didn"t move from the elevator, and insisted that they, Atalia and herself, stay out of it, since "boys will be boys". She looked onward as Cyborg got to his feet, and attempted to supplex Mark; but the latter wriggled out of his grasp, which sent the metal-man to the ground alone.

Atalia the Humanitarian wanted to end the fight, to heal any hurt or injured, but was kept at bay by Raven"s calm, assuring words. "They"re fine, they"ll just tire each other out, and come inside and find something else to fight over. It"s how they work."

The deaf brunette sighed contently. They were all stronger then any males she"d been around, and she decided Raven knew what was best, when a sudden thought popped into her head. She tapped Raven a few times, and then extended her index and pinky fingers out, and raised her hand to her head. Telephone.

"Oh, yeah, you might want to talk to your family. Sure." The demi-demon"s eyes looked a little downcast at the loss of a good conversation, but she hit the button for forty-five. The Tower's main room.

…

Mark provided the challenge Robin had been looking forward to. A fight truly worth fighting, to pit their strength, agility, and reflexes against a man with fighting in his very DNA.

The raven-haired man smiled before tossing his jacket onto one of the various unused air conditioners. It'll be safe there, as no one ran them in the fall. He shimmied into his old jeans, and then tore the paper gown off his body. He thought about putting on his shirt, but decided otherwise, after seeing a few holes blown through it.

"Now, I know I'm a little short, but don't go easy on me." Robin said. It was more of a luring tactic. Psychological.

Smirking, Mark looked at him evenly. "Now, I know I'm a little tall, but don't let that intimidate you."

Robin removed his utility belt, and threw it a few feet to his left, before taking a step towards the lean man. He had no bulging muscles, but the leader knew he was strong, hell, he had to be, to not be killed by the Merker Syndrome. But Alex, is father, was supposed to have of brought something else into its gene codes, and thus, altered it.

Mark made the first move, and ran headlong towards the spiky-haired teenager. His arms were pumping hard on his sides, and he was unable to keep back an animalistic roar. Fueled by the need to come to arms, he fell to his side, and slid towards the leader of this group he was slightly unfamiliar with.

Gravel parted like two large waves before the man's foot, as momentum carried him to his target, the teen's ankle. Robin, of course, jumped right over Mark, but the latter had thought this would happen, and merely raised an arm, bumping Robin by his boot-clad foot.

He caught himself, and rolled onto his right shoulder, away from the animal he was starting to have second thoughts on fighting. Unfortunately, backing out was out of the question. Not only would it mar his perfection, but Robin's own conscious wouldn't allow it. So instead, he just smiled, and lunged towards Mark, fist cocked.

The taller of the two raised an arm in a mock-defensive measure, before lashing out with his left leg, it missed by a wide margin, as his toe only just felt the strong fabric of the teen's shirt, but it was enough to deter Robin.

Taking a step back, Robin nodded before opening his communicator. Cyborg should be free, with no Beast Boy to hinder him. "Hey Cy, Mark's a pretty good fight, want to help?"

Mark smirked at the call for aid, but squared his shoulders and relaxed for the moment. At most, Cyborg would take a couple of minutes to get to the roof, and from there, it should be a much more involved fight.


End file.
